Kate Meyer-Currey was born in 1969 and moved to Devon in 1973. A varied career in frontline settings has fuelled her interest in gritty urbanism, contrasted with a rural upbringing. Her ADHD also instils a sense of ‘other’ in her life and writing.
Publications include: Family Landscape: Colchester 1957 (Not Very Quiet. 2020), Invocation (Whimsical Poet, 2021), Dulle Griet, Scold’s Bridle, Recconnaissance, RavenCageZine,2021), Fear the reaper, (Red Wolf Journal, 2021), Stream: Timberscombe (A River of Poems, 2021), Not so starry night (SheSpeaks, 2021), Dimpsey (Snapdragon, 2021), Mask (Disquiet Arts, 2021), Magnolia Stellata (Constellations, Literary North, 2021), Challenge (Poetry and Covid, March 2021), Scorpio rising (Noctivagant Press, April, 2021), Scrapheap Challenge (Handyuncappedpen, April, 2021), Scrubber in PPE, (Skirting Around, April, 2021), New perspective (Planisphere HQ, April, 2021), Hilly Fields, (Pure Slush, Lifespan Vol 2, April 2021), Kintsugi (Aurora, Kira Kira, May 2021), Dregs (Seinundwerden, May, 2021) and many more forthcoming.
Seville: a December getaway from
Dreary Britain. But no winter sun cast
Its sharp relief on the stacked mountains
Of the city’s backdrop, or defined its
Stockaded towers and sugar-cubed
Houses. Instead of the sun’s usual
Onslaught upon shady siesta courtyards:
It had rained non-stop for two weeks,
Blurring the hard-baked streets, melting
Their tiled precision to softer brush-strokes,
Drowning the skyline in a sepia-wash.
The citizens were bemused; this was not
Typical for December, they muttered,
With the insistence of raindrops, going
About their usual pursuits, with studied
Indifference, under the orange-trees,
With their burnished leaves and fruit;
Glowing with hidden sun’s retained warmth,
This was the locals’ only defence against
Unprovoked seasonal attack, strolling
Forth, casually defiant, in their combat
Gear of tailored trench-coats, or dug-in
Under stylish umbrellas, on sauntered
Raids in this drowning no-man’s land.
They squinted through storm-cloud
Sunglasses at the Giralda’s furled
Parasol, or the sandbagged outline
Of the Torre del Oro and still drank in
The sunlit glint of icy fino in dewed
Glasses, or consumed a deluge
Of tapas, basking in the golden rays
Of sliced tortilla, scattering a hail
Of olive-pits and toothpicks amidst
Flurried napkin-clouds, in bars by
The cafe con leche Guadalquivir.
As pelting rain hurled its artillery
Over the drowning city, a resistance-
Army of fallen oranges fought back
Alongside the besieged citizens:
Thudding like cannonballs to the
Pavement, dousing puddles with
Greek Fire; their heaped arsenals
A fiery bulwark, the smouldering
Bastion of the beleaguered sun.
Slow-drifting waves of hours accumulate
Like acqua alta’s rise, from dawn to late
They surge by light of steady-glowing lamps
Rousing shadowed streets and drowsy ramps.
Guardians of the gondolas’ tethered flocks
In the fold of night’s fast-anchored docks
Which underpin the city’s staked pontoon
And dream amidst the swell of its lagoon.
So dawn’s ripples spread their stippled light
On ochre palace walls; so ends Venetian night.
As shuttered windows blank encroaching day
They stare through slitted lids in stark dismay
At floating tourist-floods who peer and point
And put their gilded noses out of joint;
Each is a jaded doge, whose ebbing pride
Cannot repel the onslaught of time’s tide.
Poetry in this post: © Kate Meyer-Currey
Published with the permission of Kate Meyer-Currey